


A Pernicious Suitor

by Saucery



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Alternate Universe, Barely Legal, Comedy, Courtship, Drama, Fraternization, M/M, Military, Oblivious, Pederasty, Romance, Seduction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-12-14
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-13 16:18:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Edward Elric, barely sixteen and quite ignorant of mating rituals, has no idea that he's the target of a most pernicious suitor. Faced with the persistent and downright Machiavellian wooing of one Roy Mustang, will Ed emerge unscathed? Or will he become just another conquest for the infamous Colonel, whose ambitions for the Führership take precedence above all else? A romantic tragicomedy for all ages! (Um. All ages over 16, anyway.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've bent the timeline a little bit, both within canon and without, to include scientific discoveries like the Uncertainty Principle even though they haven't yet been discovered in FMA's world history. This is just for kicks; it doesn't actually change the plot in any appreciable way. (Translation: I just wanted to be geeky.)
> 
> I must also warn you that there is nothing serious about this story; it is simply a fun-loving take on Ed's 'ideal' life as a sixteen-year-old, with Roy watching (perving?) over him and Hughes still hanging around. And since this is _my_ ideal life for Ed, I've conveniently done away with the whole no-relationships-within-the-military thing, and have even replaced it with a socially acceptable system of pseudo-pederasty. Hey, FMA's already an alternate history – it can't hurt to add a few perks of my own, right?
> 
> The title is based on a quote from Shakespeare's play, _Much Ado About Nothing_ , the relevance of which will become obvious later on.

Mustang had taken to watching Ed, which meant either that he was planning something unpleasant for him, or that he just wanted to drive Ed insane by making him _imagine_ what Mustang might be planning for him. The insane thing seemed to be working, all right, because Ed found himself becoming increasingly twitchy and paranoid.

He also knew that confronting the Bastard Colonel about it was pointless, as pointless as it was trying to catch a slippery eel, or pin down an electron mid-transmutation. Hell, Mustang was the very personification of Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle. Just looking at him filled Ed with the same peculiar, frustrating buzz he felt whenever he looked at an incomplete array – too many unknowns, too many goddamn parameters, impossible to decipher and impossible to ignore until he figured them all out. And he had no illusions about ever being able to figure Mustang out.

He couldn't understand why Mustang stared at Ed's hands, sometimes, when Ed was shoving yet another shorthand report across Mustang's desk. (Was it the gloves? Some inferiority complex about Ed not needing transmutation circles?) Or why he stared at Ed's shoulders, or even his hair. (What, was the braid suddenly against military regulations? It wasn't, before. If it was, Hawkeye would be sporting a crew-cut by now.)

Whatever Mustang was up to, Ed wished he'd just reveal his nefarious plans, already. It was getting difficult for Ed to concentrate, even in the middle of mission briefings, what with those shadow-dark eyes fixed on him like he was an experiment on the verge of yielding results. The question was: What kind of experiment? And what kinds of results?

He tried to tell Al about his suspicions, but Al only sighed and shook his head, the way he did whenever Ed brought up the Colonel, these days. Which was unfair, because it wasn't _that_ often, right?

"Just go to sleep, brother," Al huffed, and Al was obviously the most inconsiderate and oblivious sibling in the whole world, because how was Ed supposed to sleep when conspiracy theories about Mustang's stupid _eyes_ were crowding his mind?

"I'm not going crazy," he muttered into his pillow – and Al must've heard him, because he snorted disbelievingly from across the room.

 

* * *

 

But then Mustang sent them on yet another wild-goose chase in the North, involving a bunch of rogue alchemists hell-bent on creating an army of Abominable Snowmen (ice-bound chimeras, really). There was this nunnery and an ancient relic that Ed might have kind of accidentally melted, and he might have misplaced a train or two, but he _did_ save those nuns from hordes of ravening Yeti, so Mustang could take his complaint forms and shove them where the sun didn't shine. Mustang could needle him as much as he wanted about 'great' responsibilities and 'small' alchemists, but Ed wasn't about to give in.

Or at least, that's how it was supposed to go – but Mustang had mysteriously neglected making any puns about Ed's height, which was weird enough in itself to almost put Ed off his food (almost – thank god for Hawkeye bringing those sandwiches to the Colonel's office, anyway), and what was even weirder was that despite wearing his usual poker face, Mustang was _still_ watching him. Ed wished Al were here, just so he could point at Mustang and say: 'There! See? I'm not crazy!' But Al was still outside, begging Fuery to adopt the latest stray kitten he'd found.

Great. Ed was stuck in here, being subjected to some sort of freaky stare attack, and his brother wasn't here to back him up.

It made Ed antsy. He complained about the complaint forms, kicked Mustang's desk to illustrate just how tiny the dent in the nunnery's wall was, and generally kept his hands in his pockets (and out of staring range), but Mustang. Kept. _Looking_ at him.

It started a hot itch between Ed's shoulder-blades, possibly because he was allergic to all things Bastard, but hey. He'd have to suffer through it until he invented a hypoallergenic anti-Mustang spray. (Item #43 on his To-Alchemize list – quite high up, considering that the list was 672 items long, and the first 40 items were all Al-related.)

But enough was enough. He'd _had_ it with this.

"What?" Ed finally snapped at the Colonel.

Who merely raised an eyebrow, the bastard, as if he didn't know what he was doing. "Yes, Fullmetal?"

"You." Edward could feel his veins starting to pop. But no, he wasn't going to give the son of a bitch the satisfaction of watching Ed lose it. Sadistic creep. " _You're_ the one staring at me! And you've been staring at me for... for weeks!"

The Colonel raised his other eyebrow, too. "You noticed," he murmured, and seemed oddly pleased.

"Anyone would notice if the Flame Alchemist was staring at them hard enough to _burn holes_ into them, yeah."

"Hm. Subtlety does tend to be lost on savages."

Ed bristled, but Mustang was still looking at him, at nothing _but_ him, with the kind of uncanny focus that made Ed's skin crawl. Or tingle. Or something.

And what made it worse was that Mustang's voice had gone all silky and smooth, as treacherous as quicksand. "You're turning sixteen this Friday."

"Yeah, so?" Ed had nearly forgotten, actually, except that Al had recently started his usual pre-birthday hijinks of 'secretly' disappearing somewhere – as secretly as a giant coat of armor could, anyway – and he only ever did that when he was looking for a surprise birthday present. "What's it to you?"

Mustang's eyes were cat-like, dark and heavy-lidded and insufferably smug. "Oh, nothing. I just thought I ought to convey my congratulations to you in an appropriate fashion. Say, a rare alchemical treatise from the 16th century? Followed by an intelligent discussion about said treatise, possibly over dinner."

Ed blinked. "What?"

"Of course, I understand that you might wish to spend the actual day celebrating with your brother – and subsequently with Maes, as he and Gracia will likely have something planned on Saturday – but you might want to keep your Sunday open."

Mustang was spouting absolute gibberish. "My. What?"

"Your _Sunday_ , Fullmetal. Surely you've heard of the concept? Sabbath, the day of rest?"

"If it's a day of rest, why should I spend it with _you_?"

"I simply want to give you a token of my appreciation, for your many years of service to the military."

Ed snorted. "For my many years of wrecking public property and running up your bills, you mean? What're you gonna do, poison my food?"

"Poison, no – but perhaps a good sprinkling of Xingian spice. I've heard that you quite enjoy it."

"How the heck do you know that I...?"

"Alphonse told me."

"Why would Al tell _you_?"

"Because I asked." Mustang had the gall to look amused. Bastard. And since when did Al talk to the Colonel without Ed knowing about it, anyway?

"What the hell are you up to, Mustang?" Ed didn't have time for this. He had to get back to the library, and read more about Item #9 on his To-Alchemize list – the restoration of human organs, sans skin. (Skin was #10.)

"A birthday celebration. For my most vaunted Fullmetal Alchemist."

"I'm not _your_ – no, you know what? Never mind. It's just about the book, right? This 16th-century thing. Just hand it over, then, if it's a birthday present. I don't see why I have to go out to a Xingian restaurant. For dinner. With _you_."

"Not a restaurant, Fullmetal. My home."

Ed's jaw dropped. "Your home. You're inviting me. The guy you say destroys every building he walks into. To your _home_."

"It's something of a gamble, yes." A slight quirk at the corner of Mustang's mouth, quick to disappear. "But I believe that the winnings will be worth it. And my cooking really is par none, Fullmetal."

Okay, now that Ed had established that Mustang had gone _completely mad_ , all he had to do was figure out why. Or maybe this really was just a... formal thing. A show-your-appreciation-to-your-subordinates-to-maintain-their-morale thing. But that was stupid and fake, and not at all like Mustang's usual brand of fake (which was never stupid – that, at least, Ed had to admit).

Or maybe... oh.

 _Oh_. A treatise. A historical treatise from the 1500s, when Dobler and his coterie of alchemists had formed a secretive organization that no one had ever discovered the purpose of. Except that maybe Mustang _had_. Could it have something to do with the Philosopher's Stone? And was that why the Colonel was inviting him over, under the pretext of a 'birthday celebration', so he could hand over the treatise in the privacy of his own home, without raising the military's suspicions?

Now that was more like Mustang's brand of fake. And it sort of even made all the weirdness okay. The weirdness of actually having a home-cooked birthday meal with the Colonel. Ugh.

Mustang had been watching him all along, seemingly entertained by whatever was happening on Ed's face. Ed hated it when Mustang looked at him like that – like he was some sort of sideshow, or maybe a puppet show, and Mustang wanted to be the one holding the strings.

"All right," Ed grated, adopting a mock-formal tone. "I gratefully accept your invitation, _sir_."

"Excellent!" Mustang pretended not to notice Ed's sarcasm. He even looked kind of happy, but this was Mustang, so who knew? Maybe that smile was just a random facial tic, or maybe he was genuinely thrilled at the prospect of making short jokes for an entire evening. Because he might've held off for today, but there was no way he could hold off indefinitely. "Sunday it is. I'll be expecting you at eight."

 

* * *

 

**on to next chapter.**

Up next: Ed's first ever date!

Not that he knows it _is_ a date, but still...


	2. Chapter 2

It was an hour before he was due at Mustang's, and for some bizarre reason, Al was flipping out.

"No, no, you've got to go _alone_ , brother. What're you taking me for?"

Ed shrugged. "You always come with me."

"But – but – " Al wrung his hands, the giant gloves unable to conceal an anxious creak of metal. "Ah! I have plans! With Elicia!"

"Elicia," Ed deadpanned. "The five-year-old."

"Y-yeah. I promised – to show her something today. Um. A book! A book I was reading. And Mrs. Hughes would be really mad if I didn't keep my promise, right?"

Ed couldn't imagine Gracia being mad at anyone, for anything, unless it was being mad at her husband for not taking out the trash on time. No one could be mad at Al, anyway; that would be like being mad at a tiny bunny rabbit. (In a massive suit of armor, but... details, details.)

"Your choice." Ed finished braiding his hair; it was still slightly straggly after his shower, but what the hell. It wasn't like he was going on a _date_. "Too bad you'll miss out on seeing Mustang being all freaky and stare-y."

"I... don't think I want to see the Colonel being that way, brother. Really." Al laughed nervously – but when he saw Ed reaching for his tanktop, he jumped like he'd been bitten by an armor-piercing scorpion. "AH!"

Ed blinked – frozen with his head halfway through the tanktop. "What?"

"You can't wear that!"

"Why not?" Okay, so it was a little ratty and didn't smell too good after all the running around he'd done in it today, but so what? He always wore his tanktops, even to bed, and he hadn't done yesterday's laundry yet, so no fresh tanktops.

"You... you just _can't_! What happened to that shirt?"

"What shirt?"

"The – the nice one! With the long sleeves. That Teacher gave you on your birthday last year."

"Sleeves are bloody annoying when you've got automail to catch on 'em, Al. What the hell are you talking about?"

"Then a T-shirt! At _least_ a T-shirt. That dark blue one." Al was digging through their cupboard like a giant, over-excited gerbil. A T-shirt flew out from between the pillars of Al's legs and landed on Ed's head, followed promptly by a heavy smack of denim. "And these jeans! The black jeans."

Ed just stood there, gaping: a clothing-strewn totem pole.

Something was definitely wrong here.

"Al," said Ed, very slowly, "are you all right?"

"Me? Of course! Just shiny! Peachy. I mean. Put the T-shirt on! And here, the black jacket you got for functions and things. It'll match with the jeans. Too bad it's corduroy... No, wait, that could actually work..."

"Al," Ed repeated, because he had to make sure, "have you been smoking any of Havoc's 'special' cigarettes?" Not that they would have any affect Al's new body, but who knew for sure?

"What? No!"

"Then what the heck is going on? You're playing dress-up, Al. Either you've been reading those fashion magazines on Mrs. Hughes' coffee table – "

Al startled, just a little too guiltily. "I never!"

" – _or_ Elicia's been brain-washing you. What, did she get you to play tea-time with her dolls again?"

Al breathed in; breathed quietly out. "Brother. I'd love to discuss sartorial psychology and gender stereotypes with you some other time, but right now, just. _Get into your clothes_. It's nearly quarter past. You've got to get going soon!"

"Since when have you cared about being on time to the Shitty Colonel's – whumpf!" Ed wheezed, because Al had just yanked the tanktop off of him and had forced the T-shirt on. "Ow!"

"Jeans," said Al, tersely, and while Ed was struggling into those and wondering why his brother had suddenly gone _psychotic_ , with _clothes_ , Al undid his braid and ran a comb through it.

"Hey!" Ed cried indignantly. "My hair was just fine!"

"Like a haystack, sure. A _wet_ haystack." A snap of the plain black band and Ed's hair was in a ponytail, and looked more shiny than damp, somehow, now that it wasn't in a straggly plait. "There. All better."

"Al, what the fuck are you – "

"Jacket!" Al manhandled him into the corduroy monstrosity that they wouldn't even have _bought_ if it weren't military protocol that Ed have something vaguely jacket-shaped for those stupid 'smart-casual' functions. At least, _Ed_ thought it was a monstrosity, but maybe Mrs. Hughes' fashion magazines had other ideas, because Al looked him up and down and nodded in satisfaction. He whipped Ed around to look at the cracked full-length mirror on their cupboard door. "See?"

"See what?" demanded Ed, giving his crack-riddled reflection a dubious once-over. Sure, he looked almost-kind-of-maybe presentable and the jeans made him look... streamlined, or something, but he wasn't a dolphin, for fuck's sake. What did all this have to do with anything? "I'm not going to a freaking awards ceremony, Al, it's just dinner with a – okay, a superior officer, but – "

"Boots!" Al plonked Ed's usual pair of black boots in front of him, but hey, no mud-splatters. They'd been polished.

"When did you – "

"Door!" announced Al, cheerfully, and began pushing him towards it.

"Al, you still haven't explained – "

But of course, his brother steamrolled right over him. "Oh, and one last bit of advice: don't call him 'Shitty Colonel'. It's rude when someone's being nice enough to invite you to dinner."

Ed's eyes bugged out. " _Nice_? Mustang? That scheming son of a – "

"No swearing, either," said Al, muttered something about 'second-last, actually,' and then shoved Ed, suddenly and unceremoniously, out into the dorm's hallway.

And slammed the door in his face.

Goddamn little brothers and their goddamn opaque and downright crazy fashion crusades –

"I KNOW YOU TOLD MUSTANG ABOUT THE XINGIAN FOOD!" he yelled at door. "You... You... double-crossing DOUBLE AGENT!"

"Have a nice night, brother," came Al's voice from behind the door, oddly wavery, and a second later, Ed heard the brat _laughing_.

 

*

 

Stupid little brothers. _Insane_ little brothers.

Ed was never going to let Al dress him again. That blue T-shirt (that he hardly ever wore, because hey, tanktops and ease of movement) had been something they'd only bought out of necessity last year, but apparently teenage bodies grew faster than Ed had ever thought they did (and _who_ said he wasn't getting taller?), because the damn T-shirt was now too tight for comfort. It pinched his automail a little under his right armpit – automail just didn't give the way skin did – but even more discomfiting than that was how it stretched, drum-tight, across his chest and abdomen. It outlined every single lift and twitch of muscle, giving him the odd feeling that he might as well have stripped naked and painted himself blue, for all the cover the shirt gave him. Ed felt like a kid turning up for school in last year's uniform, or maybe even in _no_ uniform, and that wasn't the sort of feeling he wanted to be having before he met Mustang for another I'm-not-a-runt showdown.

Well, at least the corduroy jacket had padded shoulders, and the fabric held itself the bare centimeter away from from his automail arm necessary to prevent it from catching, like most other sleeves did. He couldn't stand stray threads getting caught in his elbow.

54, 56, 58...

What an ordinary little street.

Mustang's house was – well, it was kind of all right, insofar as houses went. It stood in a row of identical townhouses, and somehow, Ed had expected something more... unique than that. More egotistical. More I-am-the-mighty-Colonel-and-you-must-bow-before-me-you-brainless-gnats, but this was just a regular old townhouse with a neat little mailbox and a vine creeping over the front porch. Truly, painfully ordinary. Mind-blowingly ordinary, even. It just struck Ed as strange for Mustang, that's all; the stuck-up bastard usually acted as if he'd prefer a palace to an actual home, but this place practically screamed 'home is where the heart is,' or some similarly corny line. Hughes and his family wouldn't have been out of place here, but Mustang...?

For a moment, Ed was seized by a peculiar anxiety – that Mustang was letting him _in_ here, in his – secret base, or something. It was just so damn different from the image the Colonel projected at the office, all polished cufflinks and rich-boy swagger, and unless even his house was some obscure sort of cover, it was more likely that the persona he projected at the office was the cover, instead. And that just gave Ed the heebie-jeebies. Like he didn't even know who Mustang _was_.

Damn it, all of Al's prattle about psychology was getting to him. Well, it was total bullshit. Mustang was a smug, entitled son of a bitch, and that wasn't going to change.

Right.

Ed marched up to the lacquered door, lifted the gleaming door-knocker and rapped it to announce himself.

 

* * *

 

**on to next chapter.**

So, did everyone enjoy Al's little episode of _Queer Eye for the Alchemist Guy_?

I always did think Al was the gayest straight guy ever, just like Ed's the straightest gay guy ever.

And he doesn't even _know_ it. That makes him a lot of fun to write about. 

Up next: Mustang in courtship mode! Ed in what-the-hell-is-going-on mode!

 


	3. Chapter 3

He held himself stiffly – perfectly ready to bite Mustang's head off the moment he opened the door – but then he spotted the array _just_ peeking out from under the doormat, and he had his eyes glued to it when the door swung open.

"Hey, neat," he said, his gaze following the array past the door. He spotted Mustang's shoes, but ignored them – that was one pretty array, right there. "Security measure?"

"Why, yes," said Mustang's bemused voice, somewhere above him – but Ed was stepping over the threshold and crouching down to look at the array more closely. "Well-spotted."

"Those're some clever runes. A sphinx? What, like a password?"

"If I'm not at home, no one can enter without a password."

"And if the password's wrong?"

"Let's just say that the, ah, 'destructive' elements of Flame alchemy are called into play."

"Ouch."

"Indeed."

"Talk about a Thanksgiving roast."

"I'd rather not. That's a mercury base, by the way. For the – "

"Combustion cycle, yeah, I know." Ed got up, dusting his knees. He looked up at the Colonel, noticing for the first time that the man was _out of uniform_ , Jesus, in dark slacks and a pale silk shirt, and if Ed hadn't already been distracted by the array, he might've suffered from another bout of the heebie-jeebies. But as it was – the _array_. It'd been ages since Ed had seen something so unique. "This is awesome, Mustang. You have many of these around the house?" 

"You'll forgive me if I refrain from telling you," said Mustang, "given your tendency to break any and all security systems you come across."

Ed's eyes narrowed. "That a compliment, or an insult?"

"I'll leave it up to your rich imagination," Mustang smirked, and _that_ snooty tone was enough to get Ed's hackles rising, again.

Yeah, this was the Bastard Colonel, all right. Lack of uniform notwithstanding. It would almost be comforting, if it wasn't damn annoying.

"May I take your jacket?" Mustang offered, still smirky and strangely eager-looking, and Ed wondered if a height-joke was on the horizon.

"I can reach the coat-rack on my own, thanks," he muttered, and shrugged off his jacket.

"I was only being polite."

Ed snorted. He had to stand up on his tip-toes to reach the coat-rack by the door, but he was damned if he'd let Mustang do it for him. After Ed did that, though, he just sort of stood around, feeling idiotic, trying not to gawk at Mustang's home, at the glimpse of a perfectly ordinary set of sofas in the drawing room, and the less-than-ordinary-but-very-compelling collection of books. Damn. It almost looked like the walls were _made_ of books.

"Shall we have dinner first, or shall we read the text?"

Ed's brain sparked; his stomach rumbled. Caught between two conflicting impulses, all he managed was: "Um."

Mustang laughed. A weird, husky laugh. "An early dinner, then? Here, allow me to lead the way." He took Ed's arm in his, and Ed was so startled that he almost fell over, but before he could do the dignified thing and wrench his arm away, Mustang was letting him go and opening what must be the kitchen door.

It _was_ the kitchen door. Because the first thing Ed noticed, when it swung open, was the _scent_.

Of roasting Xingian quail.

"Wow." Ed's mouth began watering involuntarily. "You actually meant it about the food."

"I'm hardly going to invite a guest and then let him starve," said Mustang, dryly.

"Really? I thought you'd kind of enjoy that, being a sadist and all."

A startled glitter of – _something_ in Mustang's eyes, and his mouth twitched. "Very perceptive of you," he murmured, "but I assure you, starvation is not my modus operandi."

"Yeah. Mind-games are. I know."

"You do, don't you? You know me so very well."

"Better than you'd like, bastard. You know what? Rather than letting me starve, I bet you're just going to let me smell that all evening and only give it to me when I _beg_."

"Indeed." The glitter returned, full-force. "I might even tie you up."

Huh? Mustang's voice had gone all... throaty, or something. "But I won't, obviously. Beg, I mean. Not _you_."

"We'll see." The Colonel's mouth twitched again. "But that isn't what I have on the menu for tonight, rest assured." A genuinely disappointed pause. "As unfortunate as that is."

"Fortunate for _me_. So," Ed tried not to bounce on his feet, "plates? Should I help you lay them out?"

Mustang blinked in surprise. "How very courteous of you."

"Yeah, well. Mom would've – " His breath caught, and he found himself snapping, rather more abruptly than he'd intended: "Where d'you keep your china?"

"The cupboard on the right," Mustang said, quietly. "Third shelf."

 _Shit_. Now Mustang was going to go into pity-mode, or something.

Except that Mustang followed up with: "But I don't think you can reach it, Fullmetal. Shall I fetch you a stepladder?"

There was a moment of ringing silence. Then: "I AM _NOT SHORT_!" Ed exploded. " _Who_ did you say was too short to reach a goddamn – "

"Edward," said Mustang, and the use of his given name alone would almost have been enough to stop Ed, except that Mustang had also _opened the oven door_ , the manipulative bastard, and – 

\- and Ed was so completely swamped with heavenly quail-scent that he kind of just helplessly shut up. And drooled. 

Mustang smiled. "Dinner," he said with a flourish, "is served."

 

*

 

Turned out, dinner wasn't just served, it was _presented_. Mustang decorated each plate with a flourish of dill and coriander that looked ridiculously fancy, like maybe Mustang was one of those celebrity chefs Al sometimes waxed lyrical about (in the absence of being able to eat, Al had developed an obsession with cooking). It was hella freaky, like being in the Twilight Zone, but once Ed got that quail in his mouth, it just melted, and Ed moaned.

"Oh, god. You could start a new religion with this," Ed said, and moaned again. Mustang's eyes were back to doing that hot-and-focused thing, but Ed couldn't give a damn, not with food this great in his mouth. "Seriously, man. I can't believe I almost said no. You can invite me over _any_ time."

Mustang murmured something about men's hearts and ways and stomachs, but Ed had just discovered the little silver cups with some kind of creamy, flambeau-crisp dessert in 'em, and his eyes were rolling back in his head.

"God. _Yes_. Guh. Muh."

"Are your reactions to food always this por…" Mustang trailed off, then continued: "Vocal?"

"Hm? Yeah, if it's real good. Who knew you could cook, Mustang?"

"Certainly not you."

"Heh. Gotta say, this is one fine birthday feast." Ed would normally rather stab himself in the eyeballs than thank Mustang for anything, but his mom did teach him manners, and he'd always known to thank someone for a meal, even if it was a simple one. And this meal? Was so far beyond simple – hell, it was verging on _sumptuous_ – that Ed would be a crass asshole not to thank Mustang for it. "Thanks," he mumbled, and returned to his dessert before Mustang made fun of him or asked him to repeat himself.

But, oddly enough, Mustang never did.

 

*

 

After dinner, they retired to the library ("Isn't this entire _house_ a library?" Ed wondered aloud, but no, it appeared that the library was an even more book-laden place) and sat on the couch in its center.

It was a very nice couch. All velvety and love seat-ish. Which made Ed feel awkward about sitting on it with Mustang, of all people, but Mustang didn't seem to mind, and Ed was too drowsily heavy and replete with gastronomic afterglow to raise a fuss. Mustang had just placed a massive tome in his hands, and Ed _liked_ massive tomes. He could tolerate the company of a food-giving, book-bearing Mustang for a bit longer. Even if Mustang was strictly closer than Ed was accustomed to.

The tome was, indeed, from the 16th century, and had some interesting hints about the Philosopher's Stone – nothing exact, but the sort of roundabout, ciphered tone that set Ed's code-breaking instincts alight. Mustang went over the most promising passages with Ed, his arm curled around the back of the couch, and whenever he gestured, his fingers brushed softly against the side of Ed's throat.

Ed found it ticklish and warm and strange, and leaned away, because surely Mustang didn't realize what he was doing, but the next thing Ed knew, Mustang had shifted closer again, talking super-knowledgeably about concentric arrays and the potential they had for forming a Stone, and he was gesturing again, his fingers right back where they'd started.

Ed resigned himself to putting up with Mustang's bizarre study habits; at least they weren't as bizarre as Al's, who had been known to study with a cat sitting on his head and another purring from inside the cavity in his metal chest. If Ed was Mustang's version of a study-cat, then so be it. Ed had to find out more about the Philosopher's Stone, and if this was the only way to do it, then… it was the only way to do it.

 

*

 

When the clock struck eleven, Ed stretched and sighed, turning his head to tell Mustang he had to go, but then he found Mustang's face right in front of his, eyes dark and patient as a panther's, and Ed's voice caught in his throat. 

"Uh," he managed, finally, somehow hyperconscious of the fact that Mustang had slid even _closer_ on the velveteen couch. How was that even possible? Did the couch have a skewed gravitational field, or something? "I've gotta, um. Go."

"You're sixteen," said Mustang, out of nowhere.

Ed blinked, shifting back and getting off the couch, because being within a one-centimeter radius of Mustang was clearly frying Ed's brain with Bastard Radiation. "Yeah? I mean, yeah."

Mustang's hands curled inward, on the couch, and Ed was reminded once again of a panther, with retractable claws. "Good," said Mustang, opaquely. "But remember, if anyone else asks you out for dinner over the course of the next few weeks – anyone other than Maes, of course – you must turn them down."

"Er, why?"

"Because," Mustang said, "you're going to tell them that you have study sessions. With me."

"Oh! The book. Right." Ed nodded. "I can't take it outta here, or they'll know what I'm up to, but as long as I tell them I'm under your watchful eyes, doing… what? Studying what with you?" 

"Things," said Mustang. "Don't worry about that. I'll make it clear to anyone that asks, from my side. All you have to do is tell them you'll be learning from Colonel Mustang."

"Yeah, but learning _what_?"

"Everything," drawled Mustang.

Ed gaped. "What, like, everything on the final State Alchemist Exam? The one that's a whole year from now? Doesn't that seem kinda… preemptive, maybe?"

"Knowledge is always preemptive. And always compulsory. Especially for you, given what you wish to achieve, with the Stone."

Mustang wasn't telling him everything. Ed could _feel_ it. This whole thing smelled fishy, but with the memory of delicate Xingian quail fresh in his mind, all Ed said was, "All right. Your problem, not mine. Do I still get to eat here?" 

"Yes, Fullmetal, you get to eat here," Mustang said, indulgently, and stood as well. "Shall I see you to the door?"

"I'm not an old granny who needs you to escort me back and forth."

"An old granny, you are not." Mustang sounded amused. "Not in that shirt." 

Ed looked down at his too-tight shirt. Yeah, he guessed grannies didn't have pectorals like sixteen-year-old boys that worked out a lot. Or tried to work out a lot. He still thought his muscles were too puny to stand him in good stead against adult opponents, like Scar, but he wasn't bad for his age. "I guess. Um, what are you doing?" Ed asked, when they got to the front door, because suddenly, Mustang's hand was on his shoulder, sliding up his neck.

"You have a little something," said Mustang, "at the corner of your mouth." And so saying, he swept a thumb across Ed's lower lip, withdrawing it before Ed could catch a glimpse of what it _was_.

Ed was experiencing that tingling itch again, along with that freaked-out feeling he'd had from the start, from when Mustang had started watching him. And now Mustang was, what, touching him? Why? Why so touchy-feely after an evening of _not_ snarking at Ed and not acting like the jerkwad they both knew he was?

Mustang was surveying him, like Ed was an unruly but charming garden and Mustang was a professional landscaper. Like Ed had the potential to turn into something, or become something… but _what_?

"What the hell is going on, Mustang?" Ed asked, as bluntly as he could from the midst of the tingly itch that was making his face feel hot and and his skin feel tight. "It can't all be about the Stone." Unless Mustang was taking the fatherly-teacher-instructing-Ed-on-the-finer-points-of-alchemy thing so literally that he was pretending to pat Ed's head like Ed was a little boy, even in here, even where the military wasn't (hopefully) spying on them. 

"No," said Mustang, easily, smiling that smarmy smile of his. Great. He was back to getting on Ed's nerves again. "It can't, can it?"

So saying, he bid Ed goodbye and watched Ed walk down the paved path to the gate and out onto the street, and maybe Ed was being paranoid, but he could feel Mustang's eyes on him all the way home.

 

* * *

 

****on to next chapter**.**

Oh, Mustang. You've all but mastered the art of the bad touch, haven't you?

Next up: Ed has an epiphany!

 


	4. Chapter 4

It took Ed six weeks into their 'arrangement' to figure out that Colonel Mustang was courting him.

Courting. Him.

And the only reason he realized it was because, oh, everyone else had realized it  _first_. Like, five weeks ago. And had apparently been talking about it incessantly, to the point where it had become staple gossip around Central. They'd been talking about Ed. And the Colonel. Like  _that_.

…Like what, exactly, though? Ed had an inkling, but he wasn't sure he understood or wanted to understand what those sniggers and side-glances meant, every time he stomped out of the Colonel's office after a debriefing. "De- _briefing_ ," Havoc had coughed into his hand, today, and had nearly ended up as a vaguely recognizable Havoc-shaped splatter on the office wall. (Or would have, had Hawkeye not intervened and stopped Ed. With a gun.)

They all knew about it. Fucking  _Breda_  knew about it. Stupid, salaciously grinning Breda. But what horrified Ed the most was that even Al knew about it, and for arcane reasons entirely beyond Ed's understanding, his supposedly devoted little brother hadn't told him anything.

"Er, brother," Al said, looking at him warily as he proceeded to throw an apoplectic fit. (It was immediately after the Havoc incident, and Ed had fled into his and Al's room to regroup.) "I thought you knew. And I thought it was a good thing. You know. Now that you're sixteen."

"Good? What in crap's name is good about this? And what does my age have to do with it?"

"Well, um." Al did his full-body fidget that, if he hadn't been a suit of armor, would've meant that he'd be blushing. Hotly. "You're legal now."

Ed frowned. "Legal? I'm pretty sure I've done plenty of illeg – "

...Oh. 

Oh,  _fuck_. (No, don't even think that word. Don't. Think it.)

Fuck!

Like  _that_. They thought Ed and – and Mustang, of all people – were like  _that_. The natural progression of courting was towards... that. Of course. Why hadn't he realized it sooner? Was that why Hughes had smiled at him with that insane twinkle in his eye, and had shown him all those soft-focus photos of the first time he'd met his wife, and had talked about the importance of 'commitment' before that 'final act of intimacy'? ( _Final act_. Shit!) And was that why Hawkeye had that funny non-expression on her face whenever Ed turned up at the office? (Well, she always had a non-expression on her face, but this one was... maybe only six degrees of separation away from a smirk? Something that could make even Hawkeye smirk. Sort of.  _Shit_.)

Why did no one ever tell him anything? Why did Mustang – the bastard – never tell him anything? Even Al had betrayed him. Al. His sweet younger brother. Who wasn't supposed to know anything about turning sixteen or becoming 'legal', but apparently knew more about human sexuality and romance than Ed ever had, probably because he read all those idiotic Harle-something novels while Ed was asleep after a hard day of reading nothing but alchemical texts. For  _Al_. Al, who – or so Ed always thought – also had Ed's best interests in mind. Except that Al thought this was a good thing. Ed 'becoming legal' with the Colonel. A  _good_  thing.

Why. Why...?

"Why?" he asked Al at last, brokenly. "Why the hell d'you think this is a good thing?"

Al blinked at him. "Um. It's really obvious that you like him, brother. I thought it was nice that you could – you know, go out. With the person you like."

Right, now this _–_ this was beyond the pale. "WHEN HAVE I EVER LIKED MUSTANG?" He was  _not_  shrieking. Shrieks were for girls.

Al winced, but continued with a dogged, blood-curdling gentleness. "You don't have to hide it, brother. It's okay."

"WHAT'S OKAY?"

"I mean, you're... kind of the Beatrice to his Benedick, aren't you?"

"What?"

"The Elizabeth to his Darcy."

" _What?_ " What language was Al speaking in, and what was with all those names? But then Ed noticed a pattern, and his vision tunneled into a red kaleidoscope of rage. " _Why am I always the girl?_ "

"Brother..." 

"I. AM NOT. A GIRL." 

"Everyone knows you're not – " 

"JUST BECAUSE MUSTANG IS A DISPROPORTIONATE GIANT, IT DOES NOT MAKE HIM THE  _MAN_." 

"Disproportionate is a bit much, brother. He  _is_  tall, but no one said you were, um, not tall – "

"I AM  _NOT SHORT_!" Ed's head felt like it might explode. "AND I DO  _NOT_  LIKE MUSTANG!"

"Er..."

"IN FACT, I AM GOING TO GO AND KILL HIM RIGHT NOW.  _SLOWLY_."

"Brother, don't!"

But Ed was already out the door, which had conveniently flown off its hinges at the force with which Ed's automail arm had flung it open.

 

*

 

He almost made it to Mustang's hell-hole (Ed was never going to call it a home again, because obviously, Mustang was a demon – from hell), when the second half of his epiphany hit home.

Mustang. Was courting him.

So it wasn't just everybody else who thought that the Colonel and Ed were – m-making lo... no, that didn't suit them. Sounded plain stupid, actually – like Mustang and the word 'love' could even belong in the same sentence.  _Fucking_. Yeah, that was it.  _If they can think it, Elric, so can you._  It wasn't just everyone else that thought they were fucking. (Or soon would be.) Mustang thought so, too. Mustang wanted them to be fucking.

Mustang wanted to  _fuck him_.

Holy shit.

The idea came as such a shock that Ed had to abruptly veer off the main street into one of the side-alleys, where he had to turn away from passersby and pretend desperately that he wasn't pressing the heel of his automail hand into his crotch. Because Ed was, quite blindingly and suddenly,  _hard_.

Mustang wanted to fuck him.

And Ed had a hard-on.

What? What the flying – no, wait,  _what_?

He was standing in an alleyway no less than 700 meters from the Colonel's house, with a freaking erection, all because  _Roy Mustang wanted to fuck him_ and oh, shit, Ed had never been harder in his  _life_. It was all coalescing, it was all – oh, oh god – Mustang's eyes, the way he stared, those surreptitious little touches when he thought Ed didn't notice and Ed hadn't noticed, except that some stupid part of his body obviously had, and – why had his own  _body_  failed to inform him of this? Was this some sort of secret conspiracy to totally destroy every strand of control Ed had ever imagined he had over his life? He wondered if he could run away to the circus and leave a single note behind for Al: 'MY CROTCH AND ROY MUSTANG ARE CONSPIRING AGAINST ME. GOODBYE.' It went without saying that he couldn't possibly confront Mustang in this state. Not today.

The town clock rang the half-hour at 1530.

Ed stood face-first against the alleyway wall, and trembled – very, very slightly.

By the gods. He really  _was_  going to kill Mustang.

Because the bastard had tried to seduce him. 

And it had  _worked_.

 

*

 

At 1545 hours, Ed stumbled back into their dorm room only to see Al bounce up anxiously from his bed and say: "Brother! What happ – " 

"Need a moment," Ed choked out, and stormed straight past Al and into the bathroom, which he barely remembered to lock before turning on the shower, stripping off his clothes and masturbating like he'd die if he didn't come  _right now_. For all Ed knew, he really would've died right then, because he'd had wet dreams and vaguely distracting erections before, but he'd never been hard like  _this_ , with a specific target in mind (don't think of his name don't think of it don't) and he was still only sixteen and he'd never even seriously thought about sex before, because it was an urge he ignored so much that it practically didn't exist except as an abstract physiological phenomenon in crudely-illustrated woodcuts from medieval alchemical texts, and he'd never thought he'd live long enough to do it, anyway, not that he'd ever really wanted to, but –

But Mu – the Co – 

 _That man_. That man had – that man had – his  _hand_ , slipping under Ed's collar – 'Fullmetal?' that liquid voice in Ed's ear – 

"Fuck," Ed whimpered, as miserably startled by his body's betrayal as his mind's, and came in furious, staccato bursts all over the bathroom wall.

 

*

 

At 1600 hours, Ed emerged from the bathroom, looking like a cross between a drowned kitten and a very, very jaded teenager.

Al felt a spike of protective mother-hennishness, but quelled it in favor of doing the brotherly thing and pretending like he didn't know what Ed had just done in there. Ed obviously hadn't seen the Colonel today; if he had, then he probably wouldn't have had to deal with – whatever Ed definitely  _hadn't_  dealt with – in the shower. All by himself. And it was kind of a good thing that brothers had to pretend not to notice this stuff, because conveniently enough, Al didn't want to notice it. Who wanted to think about their siblings doing that-thing-Ed-definitely-didn't-do, anyway?

"Um," said Al, bringing up the one innocent thing he could think of. "Haven't you toweled your hair, brother? You'll catch a cold if you don't."

"Towel," stated Ed, blankly. He stood staring at Al, for a moment, as if Al were a giant towel-rack, and then went and got himself a dry towel from the bathroom, and then went and sat on his bed with the towel over his head, and proceeded to do nothing but stare at the wall instead.

"Oh...kay, then. I'll dry your hair for you." Al proceeded to do just that, and wondered what had turned his brother into a staring zombie. Probably the absence of his Colonel-fix. Might as well cheer him up, then. "So! You've got another date tonight?"

But for some reason, that only made Ed freeze – and then explode into the most wild, hysterical laughter Al had ever heard, and this was counting all of the maniacal villains they'd run into. Which was worrying, except that Ed kept nodding through watery eyes, and wheezing: "Date, yeah,  _date_ ," so maybe he was just relieved, or something. Did he really want to see the Colonel  _that_  bad?

Well, at least Ed was showing an interest in something besides alchemy.

The Colonel must be good for him.

 

* * *

 

**to be continued.**

Up next: Ed confronts Mustang!


End file.
